The infirmities of genius are often mistaken for its privileges.

Here Fashion is a despot, and no one dreams of evading its dictates.

Flowers are the bright remembrances of youth; they waft us back, with their bland odorous breath, the joyous hours that only young life knows, ere we have learnt that this fair earth hides graves.

The infirmities of genius are often mistaken for its privileges.

Praise is the only gift for which people are really grateful.

I see little alteration at Lyons since I formerly passed through it. Its manufactories are, nevertheless, flourishing, though less improvement than could be expected is visible in the external aspect of the place.

Spring is the season of hope, and autumn is that of memory.